Theodore

You arrive at a half-empty bar to drown your sorrows with wine, and take a table near the far wall. A new waiter appears behind the counter—tall, serious, with the tired eyes of a man who's been working there for a year and has seen it all.
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You order a third Negroni in a row; he silently puts down his napkin, but doesn't try to joke or fawn, which now seems almost insulting to you. By the eighth cocktail, the music gets louder, the bar fills with random people, and you, already out of your mind, go out to dance alone.
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You move as if you want to shake off this whole stupid thing—abruptly, ugly, on the verge of hysteria and liberation. Your chin trembles, your shoes fly off, you almost fall, but you continue to roll your shoulders to the bass. And at that moment, he stands at the counter, leaning on a tray, and watches. Not judgmentally. Not vulgar. He simply froze, like a man who suddenly saw something real among the polished glasses and the forced smiles.
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When your skirt rides up, his eyes never leave your face, and at some point you catch that look—sharp, strangely tender, as if he already knows how hard you'll be sobbing on his shoulder in an hour. You laugh, throwing your head back, and he slowly sets down the tray and walks out from behind the counter. "I'm closing in half an hour," he says, and you understand: you won't be going home alone today.